Imperfectly
by Ada Evol
Summary: The Force is a powerful thing. But to wield it, does one have to be truly light or truly dark? Or can one simply be human? The Exile must decide this for herself, and in doing so, live out her destiny. KotOR 2 fanfic. Please R&R!
1. Prologue

I have been reworking this story for a few weeks now, as I have been replaying TSL. The whole point of this story is to get a better feel for the interplay between the characters that I felt was lacking. I have also made some changes, which will become more apparent later.

Please, please critique. I crave feedback like it is my job.

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The murmurs, the disjointed and frail exclamations of pain. These were the things that hurt him most. He would rather her be still and silent than feverish. She cringed in her comatose state, her face contorted with horror, and he looked away. It was only when he could no longer hear the rustle of the sheets, the creak of the old mattress beneath her, that he turned his hazel gaze back.

With care he adjusted the sheets. In her struggle she had managed to let them slip down, revealing her threadbare underclothes. His hand reached out, and then he paused. She would be displeased for someone to see her in such raggedy apparel. He smiled, thinking of the way she would argue with Kreia about the importance of appearance.

Kreia. If only he had strangled her when he had the chance.

"Atton?"

Hastily, he dropped the sheet in place, and looked behind him. There stood Mira, her head bandaged and her arm in a sling.

"I think - I think you should go have something to eat. Visas helped the Disciple make some soup. You've been here for hours. Your watch is more than over."

"Yeah. Yeah, you're right. Though I don't know how good the soup is going to be with Visas being blind and the Disciple being a dolt."

Mira allowed a wan smile, and put her hand on his shoulder. He could no longer hide inside the cargo hold. They would not let him. He rose, habitually dusting off his thighs, and walked out. He forced himself to only glance back once.


	2. Awaken

Cold. Plasteel, perhaps. Goose bumps played leap-gizka down her spine and the right side of her face, pressed against the cool floor, felt numb. She kept her eyes shut, and allowed her body to recover from sleep. As her blood began to heat her limbs, she suddenly wished that it wouldn't. Pain flooded her senses. Bruises, half-healed. There was a trace of unnatural lethargy in her veins. Medicine? More likely poison.

She moved her fingers, testing mobility. No extreme pain. However, she suddenly realized how sticky she was. And she stank of kolto. The environment came to her in pieces, and she slowly opened her eyes.

_Where am I?_

Taking a deep breath, she pushed herself off of the floor, and stood looking warily about her. She had fallen, clearly, from the open kolto tank behind her. That would be the cause of the pain in her chest. Bruised ribs, no doubt. And the pulsing in her head. Two tanks shouldered her own. Suspended in the healing liquid were mottled corpses, their veins visible through their milky skin and traces of foam hanging from their cracked lips. Poison it was, then.

"By the Force, there had better be a 'fresher in here." She contemplated to herself aloud, holding her dripping arms away from her body in disgust. There had to be one attached to this medical bay. Quickly, she surveyed the room, to find a computer panel in the corner. Ignoring the constant thud inside her skull, she sliced into the computer and checked the status of her tank-mates. Dead, though it did not give any details as to how they arrived at that state. She forged further into the computer's files, extracting a floor map. There was a refresher, located in a small room attached to the medical storage, one room down the hall and to the left.

In vain, she searched the containers in the room for clothes. The brown, dripping underwear she had on were less than flattering. Desperately, she hoped that she would find some in storage.

The doors functioned perfectly, sliding open as she approached and clicking shut neatly behind her. But the place seemed devoid of life. She heard no noises except the hum of machinery. As the shower door shut behind her, and the spray of hot mist hit her, she immediately felt the wrongness of this place. It was clean, well taken care of. Yet not a person in sight. Not even a droid graced the presence of the halls..

It wasn't even the place that bothered her. It was how she had gotten here. She could remember being aboard the Republic ship, taking care of the little bits of business that needed to be done. And then. Well. Nothing.

It was not characteristic of her to easily forget. Her acute memory had always been a bane of hers, but now everything except the immediate present seemed blurry and out of touch.

Having discarded the sticky mess of underwear upon her entrance to the shower, she was dismayed to find only a pair of dry panties and a supportive tank top in the plasteel crates. These things she remembered. These were hers.

"Good. Keep my lingerie. Not my pants, or even my robe. Clearly, undies are the most important thing to these people." Scowling, she pivoted on her heel to find herself face to face with a fogged mirror.

Her scowl softened as she took in her reflection. It was a sight that simultaneously tortured her and pleased her. It was a farce, though not one that she had put up herself.

Her azure eyes scoped out the damage her body had taken while her mind searched for answers. Where the hell was she? How the hell did she get here?

And then there was the voice.

_Your answers lie where there is no life._


	3. Identity

It had been a long time. A very long time indeed since she had heard voices in her head. In those times she would have sought the voice out, followed its life-thread to the source. But she knew that if she were to reach out, all she would find would be stale air.

She shook her head, blinked, listened for a clue. But no clue came to her. Her reflection mocked her and she pulled a face, showing it her indignation.

"No life, eh? Creepy and cryptic, of course." She talked aloud, and listened as her words echoed off the walls. She could see behind her, through the mirror, a door.

With a sigh, and a straightening out of her back, she turned and strode towards the door. It slid open soundlessly, and antiseptic-laced air tickled her throat. The smell that hit her next was unpleasant by association. Preservation chemicals. The fountain of youth for the dead.

"Morgue" she muttered to herself, "very clever. Now where are my answers? " Two corpses were laid out on the hard cots. One was a man, badly burned- the other an old woman who seemed to have died of old age. Around the man's waist was a utility belt, barely scorched, and she cautiously undid the clasp. She was careful to avoid the scorched flesh as she searched the pockets, removing hydrospanners and various security clearance cards.

"Find what you're looking for amongst the dead, Ainia?" She froze. Her name hung in the air, sounding so familiar and yet so foreign. She turned slowly, eyes narrowed to slits, brandishing a plasma torch she had lifted off of the belt. The old woman was sitting on the edge of her cot, the brown hood of her robes falling over most of her face, her mouth a thin line, awaiting an answer to her query. Twin braids framed her wan countenance, and the hood cast shadows and deep wrinkles across her skin.

"How- Who are you?" Ainia demanded. It had been many years since anyone had spoken that name in her presence. She had abandoned it around the same time she had abandoned the Order.

"You sound startled by your own name, child. Have you been keeping it safe for someone?" The old woman sidestepped Ainia's question, and forced her own upon the younger. Frustration bubbled inside of the young women. What right did this half-dead prune have that allowed for delving into her past?

"I have been keeping _myself_ safe by keeping it lost. But if you plan on dusting it off for use, mind telling me yours?" Ainia's eyes narrowed to suspicious slits.

"Kreia. Would you rather I call you the Exile? " She spoke with little emotion, though her tone hinted cynicism.

"Ainia will be just fine, thank you. So, please, enlighten me as to our particular situation." Ainia's lips pursed tightly, and she placed her slender hands on her hips. This- Kreia seemed to know too much.

"Ah, yes. It appears my ship somehow got here, though I am not sure how, or what this place is, for that matter. And it also appears that not all is right. I sense something is coming. And I sense it does not bode well."

"Just the answer I was looking for."

"Well, go do what you youth are good at. Find yourself some clothing and some information. I will wait for you here."

"And after that, you owe me a damn lot of answers. You understand? You could be a Sith Lord, for all I know."

"I will answer what I can, Exile." Kreia watched as Ainia left the morgue, a peculiar smile contorting her lips. It was odd. All those years had passed since she had last caught a glimpse of the girl. Twelve years since Revan began recruiting her fellow Jedi and rallying them against the Mandalorians. And yet, the Exile did not appear to have aged a day. Granted, she had been very young when she had left the Enclave.

But still, it troubled Kreia. And intrigued her.


End file.
